Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 42332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Our VP had earned his road name because he was an expert in fire. During his time in the military, Blaze had earned a Ph.D. in Combustion Science and had become a pyrologist. His talents came in very handy when we needed to fake a death by fire or destroy evidence conspicuously.
Although it didn’t take fire for him to be dangerous. He was a lethal motherfucker with any kind of weapon, something we all respected.
Blaze sipped his whiskey before responding. “I don’t need flames to get shit done. I just like the smell of victory better when it’s charred.”
“I rest my case,” Tomcat smirked.
King huffed in annoyance, making it clear he wanted to return to the matter at hand.
Rebel glanced at the TV before his gaze landed on the prez. “I get it’s recon. In and out, but what if we run into trouble?”
King didn’t hesitate. “Handle it. Quietly.”
We hammered out a few more details until everything was aligned—the timing, location, purpose, and how it would go down. All that was left was execution.
As I leaned back in my chair, arms crossing over my chest, the weight of what we were walking into didn’t settle heavy on my shoulders. It felt familiar. Like something I’d been carrying too long, and now it was just finally time to put it down.
Dunbar.
That name had sat like rot in my bloodstream for years. Poison without an antidote. Back then, when we were searching for him, I’d told myself it wasn’t my place to take him out. I figured that command would handle it, assuming he’d never see the light of day again. That the system, broken as it was, would catch up to him eventually. I expected his trial would end in his execution after all the shit we’d discovered—the trail of bodies he’d left behind him.
But the truth was simpler.
I’d left it to someone else to pull the trigger.
And now he was here. In the light of day. In my town. My territory. Circling my woman like she was some piece to be removed from a board he thought he still controlled.
This time, I was the system. And there wouldn’t be a damn trial. I’d already seen the damage he could do.
If I hadn’t been watching after Maren flinched that night in the diner, she might’ve vanished before we ever had a name.
No. That wasn’t happening.
This time, I was pulling the trigger.
And I wasn’t aiming for mercy.
Echo was already in place when we rolled out. He’d parked across the street from the depot three hours earlier, hidden in the shadow of a derelict auto shop, monitoring Wizard’s tap into the exterior feeds and dragging nearby security cams into our network loop. He was also listening, via his sophisticated surveillance equipment, to what was happening inside. Movement patterns, the sounds of a TV or stereo, and any conversation that could give us intel that would make our breach easier.
By the time Rebel, Tomcat, Cruze, and I pulled up behind the warehouse, he’d already flagged blind spots and verified no incoming traffic since the guard rotation hit at one thirty.
We slipped through the perimeter fence without a sound, boots gliding over cracked asphalt, weapons low, and comms open. Cruze bypassed the keypad with a homemade chip he soldered together last night, then popped the door with a quiet snort like the system had personally offended him. We were inside less than five minutes after we arrived.
At first glance, the space looked like it was just a high-security storage warehouse. Metal shelves lined the interior, crates sealed and marked with innocuous shipping codes and municipal cover labels. Somehow, Cruze managed to silently peel one open with a crowbar.
“What the fuck?” he grunted. It was so quiet we wouldn’t have heard him without the comms. Tomcat glanced inside and whistled low through his teeth.
Once I saw what it contained, I understood their reactions.
Rifles. Brand new and military grade. Still in the foam casings.
“Shit,” Rebel muttered, crouching near one of the crates. “This is high-end distribution, not pass-through. Look how they’re staged.”
He was right. This wasn’t just inventory waiting for the next truck. It was order fulfillment.
Cruze ran a slow circle around the far side of the warehouse, then dropped into a crouch by a low wall section that looked off. “Hidden office. Tucked behind the eastern pallets. Vents wired for sound capture. My guess? Admin space for on-site ops.”
Which meant they were planning to manage from here. Not move through.
I stood in the center of it all, surrounded by crates of blood money. Every breath came slower. This wasn’t just about transport. This wasn’t a step in the path.
Dunbar wanted Riverstone as a base.
Covered by our name.
Fury twisted in my gut. This was exactly the kind of move he’d make—hide in the open and gamble that no one would come looking for him in Hounds territory.